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Phone Song

In the accompanying days and weeks, Todd would sell everything he could, no money no problems as long as he got his fix. Incredibly, his wife did not know of the accident, did not know the source of his gnarly gait. She just assumed he was shooting for the bottom of the barrel, nothing easier to hit than a glass pipe full of fish, Todd seemed unstable, an atrocity of audaciousness. Before long, even before that, she threw him out and filed for divorce. She would take the children to Florida, where her mother lived. It was warm there and Todd wasn’t worth the effort. She no longer felt love for him, she no longer knew him, she no longer had the desire to achieve family, she no longer needed to go on the run with him, smoke toiling from the foil, suck it in strong, set the straw upon the throng of chemicals and cataclysmic bliss and set yourself along the crisis full of road.

Posted 18 Jun 2009 (3 weeks ago) | Poetical Ramblings | Comments (0)

Critical Analysis Theory

Todd and Jason sit cross-legged together on the front porch, alternatingly smoking and speaking, stoking and thinking, sinking deeper and deeper into the stone stope steps, stroking stronger and stronger the wisps of hair that wrought from their chins.

Posted 1 Feb 2009 | Thought Training | Comments (0)

Preview Patter

He lays down lying in the middle of the road, arms straddling the dividing lines, a pillow has been added to his routine and his head sits loftily gazing downward on the sky. He counts the thoughts in his head, the unique thoughts, discriminating each into clusters of fruit, he’s hungry for a blueberry, his teeth slicing through the soft center of the universe, density never tasted so good. Several minutes pass before any indication of movement, a balance is restored to the world with the birth of potential, Jason sits up to observe the oncoming vehicle several blocks down the road, several blocks down the road is a pickup truck. The aggregation of ideas is had over a cigarette sparked well before the pickup truck passes him by, a thoughtful front porch with a reliable stoop is a well-behaved canine for every man and woman, child and grandchild, etc. and otherwise.

It is a time of bliss in the heartland unknown and unheard by most everyone while they sleep and dream of sweat sweat sweat to make a buck or two or three it’s four in the morning for the birds singing songs backing the various tracks criss-crossing through his head. It suddenly occurs to him that there is no better time to be aware. There has been no better time in his entire life for the time being, time being an unlikely predicament of various confluences, each bending and crashing into the other confusing him with its backward logic and leaps of faith. Time was, those were his best times, and those too were his best times, each time happening like the last until he forgot about the time they leapt off of the line leapt levitating levity and held it there to behold, a moment lost in time.

Tomorrow is today, but he still needs to sleep before he goes to work. Jason leaves his thoughts lingering and lightly dashes up the stairs. Each step he takes is a soundless bound, he covers flights of ground with such quickness and grace as to suggest a certain purpose. Purpose is a spool of floss and a toothbrush. The process employed to clean his teeth is lengthy and detailed, the room in which he performs his worship is redundant and borderline offensive. A ghastly circus red and white patterned wallpaper is adorned by cartoonish female elephants bathing themselves in large buckets full of water, it is floor to ceiling and on the ceiling. The dwarfish size of the room further accentuates the comical seriousness with which Jason swishes mouthwash. He spits and rinses.

Posted 31 Jan 2009 | Abe Absurdum | Comments (0)

The Gilbert Sound

We all know the story of the boogey(wo)man. He/she lives in the closet. Or under the bed. He/she comes out at night and gobbles you up. Or at least threatens to. We all think it’s done once we age. Like cheese, mold makes us immune. It’s the truth too. But that doesn’t mean the boogey(wo)man is gone. I’ve spoken to your boogey(wo)man. He/she is hurt that you turned moldy. He/she doesn’t have a closet/bed to sleep in/under. And in those closets and under those beds are scores and scores of particles of particles of dust and dust. The boogey(wo)man scientists believe that those particular particles contain vitamins and nutrients not found in other forms of dust; vitamins and nutrients that are essential to preventing cancer, both lung and eyeball, in boogey(wo)mans. So take a couple showers in a row. That should get rid of the mold.

Posted 28 Jan 2009 | Aliens/Humans | Comments (1)

excuse comic book guy his errors

wonder midgets become protection from the tanks, a missle falls from the sky, my skirt has lifted for your head, plenty of room inside.

Posted 15 Jul 2008 | Loud Ideas | Comments (0)

a story about edna webster

oh richard. i never knew you to be so coy. but now i do. i was reading this book at caribou and a woman walked up to me. she said that’s richard brautigan on your book. aghast it is said i. he is a very funny man. i read some of the poems in the book and responded aghast he is! she sat down across from me and told me that i looked nice reading that book with richard brautigan, a man who is funny, on the cover. so now i read that book everywhere i go.

Posted 13 Dec 2007 | Abe Absurdum | Comments (2)

cash box

the thing about addictions is that mind power wants what look up & down my love beside you too because because because theres a mushroom cloud abrewing & well add sugar just in case its too bitter about the divorce & bitter about the cocoa beans stolen from the cupboard to feed an addiction & the thing about addictions is that we all just live them feed them pet them hold them wait it is them theyre coming & i think if they knock on the door the best course of action is just to keep rocking to the back with my hand behind your back holding you tightly away from the clouds & away from pluto that bastard planet of a moon or is it moon of a planet full of hope & dreams & one day well go there together because the thing about addictions is that when our feet grow taller than the snow crunching underneath our feet grow taller than the stars above our heads grow wider than the window looking out over the mississississississippippippippi like an addiction because the thing about addictions is that you cant stop once you start running up the hill to fulfill your deal with god for three plutonium reactors smuggled across the border on the condition that you dont tell north korea about the thing about addictions is that when we find that lake by golly itll be a big lake & well take off our clothes & our frosted bodies will rise to the occasion theyll rise from the earth & well arise from beneath the surface breathing elephant oxygen just so we dont drown in a pool of lips made to kiss the thing about addictions is that if i removed all the vowels youd end up with elastic telepathy bouncing from my mind to yours & back again & again & again all endy chavezy like until our goat friends stage an immediate intervention for the sake of the thing about addictions is that where now is tomorrow & yesterday is forever & never is always & then is today & its all satanic shadows when you think about it do you think about it do you think about me as i think about you right now my thoughts are you they travel 94 to 94 to 94 to washington to 10th to 8th day of the month was today ringing rang the bell away from the thing about addictions is i love you dear & once upon a time i didnt but it wasnt for lack of love but rather lack of knowledge & once upon a time i did & it was for an octagonal outpouring of love & a kinetic knowledge its kinetic energy its potential its always there always alive always inside kinetic potential future past coming out of the dark ages 300 years ago when the thing about addictions was the same as it always was once in a lifetime & do you remember when we used to climb trees all day all the way to the tip top tank sitting on a branch licking the salty sap from the bulky bark breaking laws of physics like flying away to the sun inside of which was a moon inside of which was a life living like it was supposed to without the thing about addictions is that when trampled trillions decide upon a new king theyll review our application & consider the prospect of an empire ruled by you & i & theyll say & theyll say what about you & what about i & the thing about addictions is that you dont need to close quotations anymore not on my watch honey it isnt necessary & punctuation too isnt necessary indeed the thing about addictions is a find & replace away find & destroy find & install find & slap a three-foot long pillow on the wall & well play darts together my love each finger a projectile & ill throw you & youll throw me at the thing about addictions is that eventually they come to an end & after the end is a beginning & perhaps another end & between it all is three silicone slices of turkey all wrapped up & presented to the highest bidder whomever that happens to be be it the queen of france or the pope of scotland paper towels are the thing about addictions is nonsense.

Posted 15 Oct 2007 | Poetical Ramblings | Comments (2)

the clouds they are restless

I am now fluent in the language of her legs, having watched them for three hours now, a team of eight muscles cooperate to propel her bicycle forward with ease, conversation is traded with each twitch, a request for security is submitted to the eternal organ, the protector, please stretch her in this manner and we will expand to the size necessary, over tree branches and potholes and up hills, it is necessary, the protector approves in bureaucratic fits we find the tone of colors to be most glamorous, and on up too into her head I wonder, what are you thinking, is it about my words, is it about my self, is it about the war, not what I expected is what it’s about, it is about nothing, it is about purity and that’s what is beautiful, not just the legs, that’s what is beautiful and I wonder for a second if she’s going to say something, if she’s going to say that but it’s downhill from here, reaching speeds of great size we fly we brace we are at the bottom of the hill now and I’ve opened up a marginal lead, this isn’t a race though and she catches up soon, breathless from appearance I wonder again, but this time of what, I can’t possibly waste my time wondering when I’m watching her legs, I wonder if we are getting closer, I want to kiss her, I wonder if it’s going to rain and for a second it does, she looks back with excitable fear in her eye, the left one, to rain is to get wet but to be wet is to be cool and to be cool is to have a story about biking in the rain, logic compels me to speed up, we are getting closer and I want to kiss her, a parade of pedopalisades passes before our eyes, each eye, we eye each other one each being for the other and we wait until it has passed us by, the final sprint is full of slope and soon her legs dismount, they take on new quality in the street, in the sun, in the shade, in the seat we eat our thoughts, each glance devours it whole, our ears hears words that sound like this or that but really they sound like that, a show for all to see in a window of amusement, each individual touch isolates us entirely from the pedestrians, the pedopalisades passing us by, my lips think thoughts too and they are pleasant enough, though not particularly complex, i notice we are far away and i realize that i have been far away since it started, context no longer had relevance, environmental concerns moot, we are where we are and it’s inconceivable sometimes, we’re back on our bikes again is where we are, returning, rehearsing, repeat what you said or did you not say anything yet, i might have said it for you, i have said it for you before, it sounds ever so sweetly, the mirror reflects shallowly, unpretentiously, our light remains hidden behind the milky sky and the path unfolds in smatterings of traversed track, pieces are missing and our journey ends prematurely, i am watching her legs again and i note the somber disguise each muscle now wears, up one last hill and we have re-arrived, un-departed, i assess surroundings sounds like another holdout task, unto itself we emerge for air, grasping, the thoughts we have found what we were looking for.

Posted 17 Aug 2007 | Being Existence | Comments (0)

Fall Through Fall To

Three people sit on the porch conversing generally. At the apex is a man, energy flows from him into his flankers, words fall from his mouth with a thud, innuendo escapes his eyes when he isn’t looking. On the right is a woman, her vocal inflections reveal too much, her actuality too little, she threatens cartwheels and Dick Cheney. On the left is a woman, face all sight and vision, each direction contained within her peripheral, each possession composed of an expansive heart and not-thick-enough skin. The cascading exchanges drip in obvious ambiguity, speech so vaguely conspicuous as to absolutely nullify a prosperous trivariate.

Man: Interesting situation.
R Woman: What do you mean?
Man: I don’t know.
R Woman: Perhaps we should change the subject.
Man: The subject?
L Woman: We could change the other.
Man: The other?
R Woman: We have already changed the other.

Posted 13 Jul 2007 | Imaginary Friends | Comments (2)

Meantime

When I die, I don’t want to do it lying in bed or in a coma. I want to be conscious and sitting in a chair — so I can stamp my feet rhythmically as I chant my dying words: “RE-FUND! RE-FUND! RE-FUND.”

Posted 6 Jul 2007 | Loud Ideas | Comments (0)